Storm Front

She’s a good friend,” Ellen said. “She dug with us a couple times, when we were there for the summer. How do you know about Yuli?”
    “Because she was here this afternoon. Shopping at Sam’s Club.”
    Long silence. Then, “Yuli? Really? She never told me.”
    “Why would she be here, Ellen?”
    “Well . . .”
    “Who was going to get the money from your dad, if he manages to collect it?”
    “I don’t know. I thought he’d probably arranged something.”
    “That’s what I think,” Virgil said. “I think he arranged it with this Yuli. If you see her, or talk to her, tell her that I’m looking for her. If she tries to leave the country with that money, she better be doing a backstroke across the Rio Grande, because she ain’t getting it out legally. If I catch her—”
    “I know, I know, you’ll put her in jail,” Ellen said. “You’re sort of a broken record about that, Virgil. Let me ask this: Why don’t you let it go? Let Dad sell the stone. You’ve got photographs, and you say they’re really good—who cares who gets the stone? Are you going to kill somebody to get it?”
    “No, but I’m going to get it,” Virgil said. “I had it, and it was stolen from me by your old man, who damn near burned down my boat. I’m pissed. That stone ain’t going nowhere but in my back pocket.”
    “Good-bye, Virgil,” she said, and hung up.
    —
    “Y OU HAVE solved the mystery?” Yael asked.
    “Yes. Goddamnit, this whole thing is rolling downhill, now. Yuli Gefen is the bagwoman on the deal—Jones gets the money, she takes it out of the country, and Jones dies. Nice, neat, and tidy. And it’s going to happen soon. Or as soon as Gefen gets out of Sam’s Club.”
    “What about the stele?”
    “Oh, you’ll get the stele,” Virgil said. “I promise you that.”

18
    V irgil took a taxi to the Mankato airport, just in case: everybody in the mix now had probably seen his truck, and if Awad was nervous, Virgil thought he ought to honor that. He did take his pistol, and when he walked into the pilots’ lounge, he found the same man who’d been worried when Virgil had taken his guns on Awad’s training flight.
    “What the hell are you guys up to?” the man asked.
    Virgil asked, “You read the papers?”
    “I watch TV.”
    “You know about this minister, Elijah Jones, that everybody is chasing around?”
    “I saw it on Channel Three. Tag Bauer’s looking for him.”
    “Well, that’s what it’s about,” Virgil said. “I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself. When I say appreciate it, I mean I won’t sic Homeland Security on you.”
    “Hey—I’m outa here,” the guy said. “I really don’t want to know.”
    “Just for future reference, Raj Awad has got some pretty high-up friends in Washington,” Virgil said to his back.
    “Got it.” And the man was gone.
    —
    V IRGIL FOUND about four dozen various airplane magazines to read while he waited, but wasn’t much interested in anything that didn’t have either floats or skis. He did find an article about the rehabbing of Beavers and Otters, and that kept him occupied until Awad showed up.
    Awad came in fast, hot, and stressed. “Virgil,” he said. “I have news, but I do not know if it is good or bad. Or who it is good or bad for.”
    “Take it easy. Just lay it out,” Virgil said.
    “There is a man from Lebanon, but really, he is from Iran. Al-Lubnani tells me about him, because al-Lubnani is very, very worried. This man will deliver the money for the stone. The money comes through the Lebanese mission to the United Nations, sent here in the diplomatic bag. You understand this?”
    “Sure. Nobody gets to look in the bag, except the mission staff. No customs, no nothing.”
    “This money is in hundred-dollar bills—three million dollars, which is Jones’s asking price,” Awad said. “But this is not important.”
    “It’s not? Three million in cash isn’t important?”
    Awad wagged a finger at him. “Not important. What is important is the man who brings it. His real name is Soroush Kazemi. He is an Iranian, but he pretends to be a Lebanese. He is known as ‘the Hatchet’ in this world.”
    “That’s another bad sign,” Virgil said.
    “He came to my apartment to speak to al-Lubnani and myself. This is why I could not speak to you—the Hatchet was on my couch.” A wrinkle appeared in Awad’s forehead. “He was not exactly what I expected. He was very nervous. He sweated very